


Downfall

by Britpacker



Category: Yes Prime Minister
Genre: Gen, General elections, It's not always good for them, Politicians like to panic, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23001460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: James Hacker is facing an imminent General Election.  The last thing he needs is a major crisis blowing up, and with his Chief Political Adviser and the Cabinet Secretary at odds (as usual) it seems he's going to have to make his own mind up.This is never a good thing.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. A Cloud On The Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress, and it's not progressing as smoothly as I would like! At least the prologue's gone where I wanted it to...

It began, like everything else, with a rumour. Not even a major front-page splash: just a few lines on the inside page of the _Telegraph_. The Prime Minister, making his morning scan of the national press for any and every reference to himself, failed to notice it. His Principal Private Secretary, Mr Bernard Woolley, noted the dry headline and let his gaze drift on to a more amusing titbit regarding the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s most recent holiday destination.

Only two people at the heart of government actually read the two paragraphs: and, more importantly, grasped their significance.

One happened to be the most powerful individual in Whitehall. Sir Humphrey Appleby, Secretary to the Cabinet and Head of the Home Civil Service, frowned briefly as he scanned the dry words, then reached for the telephone to summon the Permanent Under-Secretaries of State for the Treasury and the Foreign and Commonwealth Office into urgent conclave. 

That done he made a third call, less brusque than the previous two, to the office of the Deputy Chairman of the Bank of England. It was, of course, a call that ought more properly to come from the most senior Treasury official: but, given the wide-ranging scope of the potential disaster, the Cabinet Secretary could always proclaim his higher duty to the service of the Prime Minister, the Government and the Nation, should Frank be reckless enough to take a stand on precedent.

Meanwhile, in her office down the hall from the Prime Ministerial study Mrs Dorothy Wainwright, the chief political adviser to the titular lord of the manor, gnawed at the end of her pen, the smooth brow beneath her immaculately stiff bouffant of curls wrinkling. There was nothing concrete: simply a report of rumours, drifting from Madrid to Rome and north. Nervousness in the financial centres. Vague whispers of something not quite right in the capitals of Europe.

Dorothy Wainwright was reluctant to alarm her overlord: but it was her duty, with a General Election at most six months away, to ensure he had all the facts.

Or as many of them, she amended, pulling the pen from between her lips with a noisy pop and reaching for the nearest notebook, as Sir Humphrey Appleby, KCB, KBE, MVO, would allow the democratically elected leadership of the nation to know.


	2. Umbrellas At Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone looks for shelter when a storm’s in the offing, and somebody is always going to get wet. Jim Hacker’s problem is, it’s usually him…

“My dear Humphrey, it’s pure speculation. Scurrilous media scandalmongering! The Foreign Office would know if there was any substance to any rumour of an imminent crisis in a friendly state: wouldn’t you, Dick?”

Sir Richard Wharton, Great Britain’s diplomat-in-chief, smoothed his carefully gelled waves of blond hair and smirked at his Treasury associate, surreptitiously wiping sticky fingers against his trouser leg. “One would _hope_ that Her Majesty’s Treasury would be in close enough contact with their fellow financiers throughout Europe and beyond to establish the facts first, Frank,” he replied smoothly.

Sir Frank Gordon matched the supercilious sneer with a bigger one of his own. “And one might _imagine_ that Her Majesty’s ambassadors would have ample opportunity to assess the security, financial and political, of their host states,” he drawled, sipping carefully at his strong black coffee while his fingers tightened hard enough on the delicate handle to endanger Sir Humphrey’s exquisite porcelain. Their host, sprawled in the central of the three comfortable leather chairs around a low coffee table in the informal area of his elegant office, cleared his throat, drawing both combatants’ slitted stares his way.

“In other words, _neither_ of you knows anything more than the _Telegraph_ has picked up from _Le Monde_ , via _El Pais_.” Idly swirling the last cooling dregs around his cup Sir Humphrey kept the words light, the better to emphasise their underlying menace. “Perhaps – if it’s _really_ not too much trouble – you ought to _prepare_ your respective ministers by finding out?”

“You’ll try to shield the Prime Minister from the worst, I suppose?” Frank suggested, only the twitch of an eyebrow indicating his unease. Sir Humphrey grimaced.

“With the Wainwright female in residence, we’ll have a Force Eight gale within…” he glanced at his watch and smiled, mischief dancing through his dark brown eyes, “… fifteen minutes. She won’t understand what’s going on any better than the FCO or the Treasury, but the fabled _antennae_ will be twitching at the first rumour. Ah, excuse me – I must take this call.”

“Shall we…” Wharton rose abruptly: sufficiently unnerved, the senior official noted, to discard the dignity of an organised retreat in favour of pell-mell flight. He raised a hand, summoning his most charming smile.

“Oh, no, no, no, stay by all means,” he insisted, turning away as both men sank cautiously back into their deep leather armchairs. “Yes? Thank you, Mrs McAllister, do put him through.”

A moment later a faint, industrious quacking began to emanate from the device, and very deliberately Sir Humphrey held the receiver an inch or two away from his ear. “Arnold my dear chap, I _do_ appreciate your getting back to me so promptly,” he cried expansively, acute senses detecting the sudden increase of tension in the room as the Treasury’s top man realised he had been (not for the first time) decisively outmanoeuvred, and now faced two Cabinet Secretaries instead of merely the present formidable incumbent. “Now, I’m sure none of us want this issue to _develop_ – particularly with our Common Market partners being so deeply involved...”

A volley of sound exploded from the receiver and even Sir Frank leaned forward, straining to catch the occasional comprehensible syllable. Humphrey nodded, frowned and stretched for a pencil, scratching a few brief notes as he listened. “Hmmm… I see. Are they, indeed? Well, it’ll all come out: certainly, if _they_ get wind of it. Yes… yes, of course, I _do_ understand the _difficulty_ of the Bank’s position. You’ll reassure Desmond for me? We _cannot_ allow confidence in the City be eroded by the foolishness of our political masters – yes, especially when we have a whole continent’s worth of them clamouring to get involved. You’ll keep me posted? Splendid!

“Lunch at the club on Thursday then, excellent! Yes, I do so agree, one can’t trust _them_ at all, but you’ll keep me informed, confidentially, of course? Thank you, Arnold! Until Thursday, then.”

Deliberately replacing the receiver, he squared his shoulders and swung to face the two stricken officials still poised and ready to race for the door. “Arnold understands several of our High Street banks are very heavily involved in keeping their Italian and Spanish brethren afloat – our common European future being at issue, as the people’s supreme representatives are so fond of saying.”

His two colleagues emitted matching snorts, and with a sigh Humphrey indicated his general agreement. “I know, I _know!_ However, we can assume that despite the rigorous supervision of the Treasury – Frank - that the Bank of England, like its French and German counterparts, could be seriously compromised, were the full facts to emerge.”

The Treasury’s top man coughed hard enough to turn puce, trying hard not to complete the unedifying spectacle by shrivelling too visibly. “Does Arnold…” he began, an octave higher than usual before trying again. “Does Arnold think that’s likely?” 

“Well, it’s been common knowledge amongst the financiers – so he understands - for several weeks. I’m astonished it hasn’t leaked to the press sooner, but now _they_ know something it’s only a matter of time before the politicians get involved. And we _all_ know what _that_ will mean.”

Frank swore under his breath. Dick did the same, in three different languages. “It’ll be the first item on every news bulletin within an hour,” he predicted grimly. “And every _statesman_ —” the word was driven out as if it hurt his throat “—will be clamouring to take the credit for solving something they haven’t a hope of spelling, much less understanding.”

“So, no change there: and we’d better _all_ be ready for it.” Both men took the hint, gathering their papers and grunting at each other before shaking their host’s hand on the way to the door, their liberation briefly forestalled by a gentle, insistent tapping from the other side. “Yes, Bernard?”

“Erm, Sir Humphrey – how did you know it was me?” Dodging aside to allow two more-than-mildly traumatised Permanent Secretaries egress, the younger man kept his earnest gaze trained on his own highly polished toecaps. Only at his boss’s melodic chuckle did he venture to shuffle further into the room, allowing the heavy oak door to shut with a decisive clunk behind him.

“Because, my dear Bernard, I’ve been expecting a Prime Ministerial summons for the past half hour,” the Cabinet Secretary replied with the ghost of a cynical smile. “Am I to assume _Hurricane Dorothy_ has struck the Cabinet Room?”

“At Force Ten, Sir Humphrey.” Smoothing his hair, Bernard risked a rueful grin of his own. “Erm, I should probably warn you; the PM’s political adviser is… _advising_ him most strongly.”

“Well, it’s her job, I suppose.” Wearily gathering his notes the senior man led the way back down the corridors of power, nodding regal acknowledgement of such minions as he passed. “All right to go straight in?” he asked the Assistant Private Secretary on duty at the desk opposite Bernard’s, neatly observing the form before barging into the airy Cabinet Room and passing straight between the classical columns that adorned it, around to the farther side of the vast polished conference table to take his place at the shoulder of the PM’s senior political adviser. “Good morning, Prime Minister. Dear lady.”

Squeezing into his seat at the end of the table, pen already lifted to take notes, Bernard dipped his head to hide a smirk. One day – if the Civil Service was very lucky – Mrs Wainwright might actually be crushed beneath the weight of the Cabinet Secretary’s patronising charm.

True, Sir Arnold had never managed it: but Bernard Woolley had absolute faith in his mentor.

“Ah, Humphrey.” The more effusive James Hacker’s greeting of his most senior official, the more worried he was. When he started halfway out of his seat, aimlessly waving in what might have been an invitation to sit, his intimate servants knew that panic had thoroughly set in. “Dorothy and I have been discussing this piece in the _Telegraph_. Have you seen it?”

“Oh, the gossip about the Chancellor’s Peruvian holiday home!” Beaming benevolence, Sir Humphrey lounged elegantly in the chair facing the PM. “Yes, it _was_ rather amusing, wasn’t it? More _Private Eye’s_ sort of thing than the _Telegraph’s_ , one would have thought, but press standards have gone downhill so _dreadfully_ of late…” 

“Not _that_ , Humphrey!” The offending article was shoved across the desk, a Prime Ministerial finger jabbing frenetically at the two bland paragraphs. Head cocked, Sir Humphrey appeared to give them his full, penetrating attention.

“I _see_ ,” he said slowly. Then he fell silent.

“And?” Hacker prompted irritably.

“Well, I’m sure if there’s anything to worry about, the Chancellor will tell you. Or the Foreign Secretary.”

To his credit, Hacker looked unconvinced by a reassurance he might once have taken to heart. “If there wasn’t anything in it, the _Telegraph_ wouldn’t have mentioned it,” Dorothy piped up.

Somehow she managed to make an accusation of the observation, but Sir Humphrey brushed it carelessly aside. “They _are_ simply quoting other newspapers, dear lady,” he drawled, flicking the PM a weary glance. “But, just in case…”

“Yes?”

Sir Humphrey’s smile was that of the tolerant nanny confronted with an overtired, tantrum-throwing toddler. “I’ve had the Permanent Secretaries most concerned over for a little _chat_. Oh, I’m sure there’s nothing in it of course, but one _cannot_ take risks with the financial stability of the nation.”

“Indeed, one cannot.” Hacker’s brow furrowed deeply. “Not with a General Election in six months’ time! Humphrey, if there’s a major financial crisis now – a European recession, perhaps – I _can’t_ go to the polls!”

The unelected official cleared his throat. “With the greatest possible respect, Prime Minister,” he murmured, unleashing the deadliest of all the insults in his florid and extensive repertoire, “under the political system and the law of the land as they stand, a General Election _cannot_ be postponed at Prime Ministerial _whim_. When the parliamentary session reaches its natural and inevitable termination, our sovereign people cannot legitimately be denied the exercise of their inalienable right as citizens of a proud democracy to sit in judgement upon those who would seek to lead them.”

“Well, couldn’t I declare a state of emergency or something?” Hacker suggested helplessly. 

“Only if you want to lose the next election disastrously instead of badly.” For once the political partisan found herself in alliance with the neutral civil servant, and her discomfort was plain in the pinch of glossy lips and the hunch of narrow shoulders. “May I ask, Sir Humphrey, what the Treasury and the Foreign Office have to say?”

“Well…”

Hacker frowned. “If you don’t say it in front of Dorothy I’ll tell her anyway, Humphrey,” he pointed out irritably. “She _has_ signed the Official Secrets Act, you know.”

“And breached it as often as anyone else around this table, Prime Minister: on direct instruction and indirect, I’m sure.” Buttery-smooth, the Cabinet Secretary withdraw a single sheet of foolscap from the slim file he always carried, pushing it across for the Prime Minister’s attention. “In short: The Treasury takes the view that all matters which are wholly or principally concomitant to Great Britain’s interests overseas fall entirely within the purview of the FCO. The Foreign Office counters that proposition with the suggestion that matters of fiscal policy, including co-operation with the financial authorities of our European partners, is a central element of the national economic policy: and therefore, wholly and completely within the remit of the Chancellor and the Treasury.”

Before Hacker could ask, Dorothy summarised. “So, they’re blaming each other.”

“And when that doesn’t work, they’ll both blame me.”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

Sitting back, Hacker started plaintively at them: stiff-backed and serious now, side by side. “Do you _have_ to agree with each other _now_?” he whined. “You never do when I want you to!”

“I do have other sources, Prime Minister, beyond the confines of Whitehall,” Sir Humphrey said pacifically, ignoring the indignant harrumph from his side. “I’ve asked my contacts at the Bank…”

“As if Sir Desmond Glazebrook would understand the problem!” Dorothy erupted. Ignoring the muttered _“Neither do I!”_ from her boss, Sir Humphrey lifted a warning finger.

“Dear lady, I wouldn’t alarm the Governor unduly,” he cooed. “Particularly with a matter of, shall we say, _political_ as much as financial urgency. Sir Arnold is looking into the High Street’s position, but alas…”

He trailed off, palms raised in the universal gesture of abject surrender. “Alas – what?” Hacker bit out, clenching his own so hard the pencil in his right cracked ominously. “Come on, Humphrey, out with it!”

“Alas, he suspects the banks have taken to heart the great rhetorical flourishes of the nation’s elected representatives: particularly with regard to that _common European destiny_ you expounded upon at such eloquent length in the House on Tuesday last…”

“Oh, so they’re going to blame me for their recklessness in supporting failing banks, are they? Well that’s marvellous!”

“It wouldn’t do much for the credibility of the EEC if it allowed the whole banking sector to collapse in one of its member states, let alone two: and if I’m reading this correctly, Italy and Spain are both in serious trouble,” Dorothy complained, glaring at the Cabinet Secretary as if the entire mess was Humphrey’s fault when even the Prime Minister could see that for once not even the Cabinet Secretary could control events. “Prime Minister, this could get very messy.”

“And it might all blow over, if the major financial institutions can be encouraged - with the unobtrusive support of their governments - to intervene _discreetly_.”

Hacker glared at him. Humphrey met the hostile stare with bland indifference. “You mean, we should support another cover-up?” the PM demanded peevishly.

“At the taxpayers’ expense,” Dorothy added, bristling like an angry cat. Sir Humphrey shrugged.

“A little pain in the pocket they might barely notice, or a catastrophic recession that even a backbench MP can’t miss?” he mused, contemplating the high ceiling while they contemplated each other, two pairs of blue eyes wide with dawning horror. “Still, where matters of high international finance are concerned, Prime Minister, one ought, perhaps, to impersonate the tortoise, not the hare. And I’m sure by next Cabinet both the Chancellor and the Foreign Secretary will be in a position to apprise you more fully of the facts.”

“Facts, from the Treasury or the Foreign Office?” For the first time all morning, Jim Hacker laughed until tears glinted at the corners of his eyes. “Humphrey, it’s the first of October, not April! You _will_ tell me if Arnold hears anything, won’t you?”

“You shall be the first to know, Prime Minister.” With a grandiose flourish the Cabinet Secretary swept up his papers and bowed his way from the table as Bernard bolted to open the great double doors before him. “Let me know what’s said, Bernard,” the older man muttered, leaking the words from the side of his mouth as he passed into the Private Office beyond. 

Woolley, Sir Humphrey noted approvingly, had more sense than to give a direct response: but a jerk of the brown head was enough. Satisfied he would be apprised of the enemy’s every strategy, he hurried back toward his own office, a checklist of immediate actions already forming in his head.

Now, if he could only prevent the Prime Minister doing anything stupid – which in effect meant doing anything at all – they might just be able to avert the catastrophe his eminent predecessor so clearly believed was about to break.


	3. Distant Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sir Humphrey meets his distinguished predecessor for lunch. The Chairman of the Campaign for the Freedom of Information is in a particularly secretive mood...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update (in the hope it'll inspire me to get through the problems the next chapter is causing me). Stay well, everyone!

“So you see, Arnold, he’s certain to panic – or should I say, panic _more_ – when I present your confidential summary.” Stirring the cream through his second coffee with more than usual thoroughness, Humphrey Appleby trained a trouble dark gaze on his eminent predecessor. “And then he’ll tell the Wainwright female everything, of course,” he growled.

“And she can be relied upon to immediately make a delicate situation a dozen times worse,” Sir Arnold Robinson frowned for a moment, before breaking into a cheerful grin. “Well, worse for Hacker, at least. You know what she’ll advise, of course.”

Humphrey snorted inelegantly. “Oh, of course. A snap General Election. A rush to the polls in the vain hope of re-election before the facts come out.”

“Foolhardy,” said Sir Arnold.

“Cowardly,” seconded Sir Humphrey.

“Political,” said the two Knights of the Realm in harmony. “Although there _are_ greater disasters that could befall the nation than a defeat for the present incumbent,” Sir Humphrey added thoughtfully.

“A victory for him?” Arnold suggested, trying and failing to smother a chortle. It gave him some small satisfaction, Humphrey discovered, to be delivering, rather than receiving, the trademarked _Cabinet Secretary_ glare. “Sorry. You _have_ got him rather thoroughly house-trained, so I suppose it _would_ be rather a pity to lose him.”

“Oh, he’s been a lamb since the whole education fiasco.” Sipping his coffee, eyes half-closed, Sir Humphrey allowed himself a few moments to revel in the satisfaction of a job well done. “And if he’d just sit still and keep _quiet_ for a few months, he’d probably manage, given Her Majesty’s current Loyal Opposition to get re-elected in the spring.”

“He won’t, obviously.”

“At the price of not seeing himself _on the telly_ every night?” Lip curling over the common phrase, the younger man matched the elder’s mocking salute. “That’s the trouble with politicians, Arnold. They’d rather be talked about for doing the wrong thing than be ignored for doing the right one.”

“The right thing in the present instance…”

“Is to quietly bail out the Spaniards, Italians, and half the high streets of Europe while the ignorant masses are distracted with their Christmas shopping.” Wearily Humphrey set aside his cup and rose, waving off the other man’s half-hearted stretch for their bill. “So: we can be reasonably sure that _that_ is the one thing that isn’t going to happen. The markets are already restless, and it’s only a matter of time before Brussels takes a hand. If you hear anything more…”

“My dear Humphrey, _you_ will be the first to know.” One hand coming down heavily on his successor’s shoulder, Arnold leaned closer, concealing a wicked grin by purring his final words straight into the younger man’s ear. “And of course, it won’t be _entirely_ disastrous for us if that impudent woman does get her way. With the entire Cabinet and every impertinent backbencher on either side of the House running around the shires begging for votes…”

Heads turned around the club as Sir Humphrey Appleby emitted a rare chortle of pure, uncontrollable mirth. “My dear Arnold, I’m supposed to be urging stability in the National Interest, not pushing the PM out of Number Ten festooned in rosettes and _Vote Hacker_ bunting!”

Behind thick lenses, the former Cabinet Secretary’s bright blue eyes twinkled. “No matter which ringmaster is nominally running the circus, my dear Humpy, I’m quite certain Britain will continue to enjoy _sound_ government,” he said, giving his protégé’s shoulder a final firm squeeze. “And should Hacker fail to surprise us, you might at least have the pleasure of seeing that appalling _harpy_ evicted from Number Ten. One should never under-estimate the good sense of the ordinary voter – even as one never over-estimates it! Goodbye, my dear chap. Give my best to Eleanor, won’t you?”

*

Strolling back through the drizzle toward Whitehall Sir Humphrey had ample time to note the alarmist phrases shrieked from every newsagent’s billboard. _Markets Nervous! Pound Sinks! Secret Crisis Talks In Brussels Tonight!_

So secret, the Cabinet Secretary mused, turning aside to enter the Cabinet Office through the back door, that even the EEC Commission probably didn’t know about them yet. Which, for Britain, was undoubtedly excellent news.

“Ah, Sir Humphrey, I’m sorry to bother you, but the PM wants to see you at your earliest convenience.” Bernard, flapping like a half-drowned hen, hovered close to the door of his sanctuary and had been there, Humphrey gathered by the number of coffee cups standing empty on Mrs McAllister’s otherwise pristine desk, for quite some time. “He, ah, wants to discuss a proposition from his Chief Political Adviser.”

The Cabinet Secretary allowed himself a delicate shudder. “I should rather _not_ be on the receiving end of any proposition from _that_ source, Bernard,” he murmured, concealing a smirk as the younger man failed to smother a laugh. “So: the lady’s urging a wild dash to the polls?”

“Erm – Sir Humphrey, how did you know?” Stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, Bernard gaped unabashedly at his preening mentor. Sir Humphrey chuckled richly but gave no reply. 

With a sigh and a shrug Bernard sprinted in the older man’s wake, wondering all the way to the Cabinet Room whether he might ever dream of becoming omnipotent too.


End file.
